Valkyrie
by Mots d'imagination
Summary: An honorable vampire meets an intelligent whore, changing her life forever. Paric AU


**A/N: Special thanks to ImagineParic . tumblr .com for the prompt. I hope you enjoy!**

The footsteps have been following him for the last five minutes. Even after making three left turns, one through a nearly flooded alley, they continue to keep pace with him; always staying just a few lengths behind. His fingers reach for the blade he knows is no longer in his pocket, having left it with the few girls who had dared to remain in the brothel for the night. Protection, he had told them. Protection from what, he still wasn't sure. All he knew was that in the last few weeks no less than five girls had been found in their room, their mattresses stained with the blood that had not been drained from their mangled bodies. He thought he had seen the very worst humanity had to offer; but the corpses that had been left behind still haunt his own dreams. Still, he felt it was his duty to protect the girls that came to him, which is why he had left behind his only weapon before he had left at the late night hour; rendering himself nearly helpless.

"Because you're a _gentleman_," he hisses to himself, nearly laughing at the thought that anyone would call him such. "And a fucking_ idiot_."

Gritting his teeth, he turns on his heel to face his stalker, the tails of his jacket whipping out behind him. He can just see the other man's face in the glow offered by the street lamps; a man that is not unlike him in stature. He swallows before he speaks, injecting a believable amount of cool indifference into his voice even as he clasps his hands behind his back, the better to mask their trembling. "May I help you?"

The man stops, just paces away as he reaches up to touch the rim of his bowler hat, "Beg pardon." All that's visible are his thin lips, turned up in a smirk just outside the shadow that hides the rest of his face. Still, he speaks almost conversationally, "I wanted to congratulate you; those women you have are quite beautiful."

Restraining himself from sneering, he simply arches a brow, "They're off the clock. Come by tomorrow; we open at eight." He turns back around, intent to carry on his way. But that hope is dashed as the footsteps suddenly quicken, and his breath is forced from his chest as his back slams against the brick wall of the alley. His attacker's elbow is pressed to the middle of his chest, pinning him down even as he tries with all his might to fight back.

The second man only grins, his teeth glinting in the moonlight as he sneers, "You misunderstand; I don't care about them." He laughs darkly into the narrowed eyes of his prey, nodding his head, "Oh yes. I know what you are. A greater sinner than all of them combined, aren't you?" The man's attempts to free himself only double, until the villain nods his head, speaking with obvious glee, "That's right, whore." A flash of a blade appears in his other hand, "I like it when you struggle."

Even as the blade presses against the man's cheek, he stills himself. If it may prove to be the last thing he does, he will not give this devil the satisfaction of knowing he's afraid. He stares down his attacker with cool eyes, waiting for an end that he always knew he would meet. But no sooner has the brute lifted his face, finally revealing his identity to his victim, than his blood spurts unnaturally from a perfect line torn through his throat. As if in slow motion, the other man watches as the body falls to the cobblestone, blood staining the dirty pathway. The only thing that could draw his attention away from the dark pool that is beginning to spread is the appearance of two small shoots, and a dark red skirt that has been pulled away from the puddle of blood.

His eyes slowly travel away from the slain man and up to his savior. No more than a petite woman, dressed richly in a crimson gown that nearly matches the blood at her feet. A small waist belies the ample curves that even her dress cannot hide. Her head is turned to the side; a beautiful profile, despite the fact that she seems to be enjoying cleaning her long fingers of the blood that coats them with her own tongue. She finally seems to realize that she's not alone, and she turns her face more fully to him. The man could almost swear that there is a glimmer of surprise in her eyes, though her voice is laced with boredom, "You're not afraid."

It's not a question, but he cannot seem to stop himself from answering, if only to hear her voice again, "I'm no stranger to dead bodies." But the woman is no longer looking at him, having pulled a linen handkerchief from her sleeve before cleaning the remainder of the blood off of her fingers. The man stares unabashedly, until a curious yearning wells within him. He's not used to being ignored; and for the first time that he can remember, he doesn't _want_ to be ignored. He speaks up, his voice only slightly cracking, "The streets can be dangerous at this hour...a _lady_ should really be more careful."

His mouth snaps closed as she turns her gaze fully to him; and as surely as the dead man's arm had pinned him to the wall, so too does her piercing blue eyed stare. The slightest lift of her lips soon turns into a smile, and his breath suddenly comes up short as she answers him with an amused expression, "If I meet a lady, I'll let her know." Her eyes narrow just a bit as she steps lightly over the body, stopping just in front of him. Though he looms over her, she doesn't waver as she allows her gaze to travel up his chest, finally meeting his own blue eyes. "That is a..._lovely_ shirt." He says nothing, still captured by her stare, though somewhere in the back of his head he thanks whatever intuition had him dress in his finest clothes this evening. She must find something peculiar in his reaction, for she suddenly looks contrite, "I'm sorry about all the blood."

"It's...it's...fine," he finally manages to stammer out, the sound of his own heartbeat filling his ears.

The next thing he feels is the heavy weight of coin as it falls into his pants pocket, and the thrumming of his pulse is replaced by her soft voice; both of which seem to beat through him, "This should cover it."

He swallows, suddenly finding his voice, "Thank you...Miss...?" Again, the surprised smile touches her lips, and she meets his eyes as no other man or woman has; as if he is suddenly in on a very funny joke. Before he can ask her again, she's simply gone from in front of him, leaving behind only a slight breeze in her wake. He nearly chokes on a gasp as his head snaps from side to side, trying futilely to see where she has gone. But there's no one there, and he knows he is once again alone in the alley.

He does not recall how long it takes him to finally reach his small flat on the outskirts of the city, but he suddenly finds himself staring blankly at the door. Just as he reaches for the handle, a peculiar smell reaches his senses, one he is not sure he has ever experienced before. It's light, almost nonexistent. But just beyond the scent of a woman's perfume, he tastes the strange metallic copper. Too late, he realizes that the heady scent is that of fresh blood. He all but throws himself into the safety of his home; and as he slams the door behind him, he swears he hears the soft musical laughter of a woman.

He cowers on the other side of the door, sliding down the wood only when he knows no one can see him. Leaning his head back, he berates himself quietly, wondering if truly died in that alley and he just doesn't know it yet.

"You're an idiot, Eric Northman. A fucking _idiot_."


End file.
